At the beginning was the wind,
Then the rain
And the moment was made by itself
In cohorts of fear and shadows
At the border between night and day
In an uncertain confluence with luck.
Then, even the saints
Have returned among us,
Having fish faces,
With hair curls of grass,
With bodies of flint;
Their immeasurable pride,
Of course, the pride betrays them.
Ecaterina Staicu, Semnul
translated from Romanian by Marcel Rus